H. aultre ne cherse R.
Henry Rex seeks no other than Anne Boleyn
The royal H R were beautifully embellished, the heart so lovingly inscribed, and the words ‘aultre’ and ‘ne cherse’ impossibly tiny; the whole device making a pretty picture at the bottom of the page. There was no mistaking it. This was a love letter, fervently composed, and written with ardour by a man whose size did not easily enable small, delicate script. I understood its intent. It was meant to embrace me, oh so tenderly, in his absence.
I would go back to court as soon as I was packed and ready.
Not one moment longer would I wait to see him.
Greenwich
April 1527
I arrived at Greenwich on 1 April to find the King and Cardinal Wolsey intensely involved in final negotiations to betroth eleven-year-old Princess Mary to the Duc d’ Orléans, the son of François I. The details of the ‘Treaty of Eternal Peace’ between England and France were being finalised. There was much anticipation that this diplomatic strategy would unite France and England through a fruitful marriage and hence a loyal, lasting friendship. Although there was critical business to hand, as soon as the King was informed of my return to court he sent me a message asking that I join him for supper in his privy chamber on the morrow. This invitation I accepted with pleasure and great expectancy.
As was my way, I gave my attire much consideration: finally deciding upon an ivory satin gown with pale yellow silk sleeves and insets. I knew ivory and yellow looked striking with my colouring, and I fully intended to make an impression. This was an important rendezvous, and as I dressed, I was not without trepidation. Did Henry understand the motive in my letter? Did I over scrutinize and misinterpret his? I wished I was able to share my thoughts and anxieties with a friend, but there were none close enough. My mother had remained at Hever, and I missed her because she was the only ally who was trustworthy with such private confidences.
I expected Lord Chamberlain FitzAlan to call for me at any moment. My toilette had been meticulously completed, and the yellow silk hood was being placed on my hair, which had been brushed to gleaming. My hands quivered as I selected a ring of gold with a large pearl and placed it on my finger, and Charity fastened my pearl ‘B’ necklace. She gave me an encouraging smile and shyly said, “You look wonderful Mistress. His Majesty will be ever so happy to see you.”
Just those simple words of confidence allowed me to pause, take a deep breath, and gather myself. I hugged Charity with gratitude, dabbed the merest trace of rouge to my lips, touched scented oil to my neck and décolleté, then left my chamber to join the waiting Lord FitzAlan, who was to escort me to the King’s chambers.
Hesitantly I stood at the open door to His Grace’s privy chamber. The King stood before the fireplace, his back to me, engaged in reading a small book. As Lord FitzAlan announced my arrival, Henry turned about; a broad smile creased his face. To FitzAlan, he said “Thank you, Your Grace. No further service is required at the moment.”
With a low bow, the Lord Chamberlain backed out of the room, and quietly closed the door. I took notice that this time, there were no esquires of the body standing guard inside the doorway. Henry and I were alone.
He rushed to me, took my hand and fervently kissed it, then continued to hold it in his warm grasp. He looked deep into my eyes, and said, “You cannot have any idea how much I missed you, my lovely Anne.”
I replied that I did, for I had missed him just the same. He never took his eyes from my face as we approached the table which had been set for us. Henry gave me a sweeping glance from head to toe, and, standing back, said, “Tu es magnifique! La plus belle femme du monde.”
I replied with a curtsey. “Merci beaucoup, Majesté! But I must beg to differ. There are many – so very many – beautiful women in your court.” I was flush with pleasure at such a lavish compliment, yet nevertheless a bit flustered.
“Au contraire, Mademoiselle. How you do shine more brightly than all the others! Your beauty and grace are unparalleled, and I am almost afraid to believe what I read in your note.” He paused, then asked, “Anne, was I mistaken, or did you indeed agree to be mine and mine alone?” His eyes earnestly searched my face, and I felt my anxiousness depart to be replaced by a surge of tenderness, heightened by the extraordinary familiarity we shared.
“Henry,” I whispered, venturing to call him by name without his title, “I am yours. I feel, inexplicably, as if I have somehow been yours always. I do not know how else to describe it, but I cannot but sense we are joined by some unusual and powerful bond, and that we have known each other forever.”
“My beautiful lady,” he said with evident awe, “it is totally fitting that you would confess such a thing because I too feel that way. I do not know what it is, or why it is so - but I do know, Anne, that it can no longer be ignored. We are meant to be together, and, I commit to you, we will remain together always.”
How marvellous that sounded! But I braced myself to pose the question which must be asked.
“Sir, and what, precisely, do you say to me? My letter and gift told you I seek safe harbour. That can only mean with you as my husband, Henry. Nothing else. Is this your understanding?”
His steady gaze was guileless, showing his most honest and true self. Mon Dieu but my heart nearly stopped! He was either about to reject me - or promise me the impossible.
King Henry VIII of England said slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine, “I promise you, Anne Boleyn. You shall be my wife. We will eclipse any royal couple known before or after us. Our love will bind us and etch our place in history.”
It was then that he gathered me into his arms, no longer only my King but the love of my life - my destiny - and kissed me over and over.
For the very first time, I did not resist.
In the days following that evening with Henry, I drifted about, dreamlike. Never had I imagined such a feeling! I excitedly anticipated our next meeting, yet needed the time to myself to comprehend what had happened; to think about that which had been said, and to come to the full realization that the King and I were betrothed.
A great concern, though, cast its shadow. I still did not know how Henry intended to rid himself of Katherine: only that he had promised to do so, and with haste. Occasionally, a trace of remorse would breach my joyful fantasies, when I pictured Katherine receiving the harrowing news. But I was completely entranced with new love, and forced such discomfiting thoughts aside, at least for the time being.
In spite of the fact that I was now a woman betrothed, and secretly deliriously happy, the affairs of state carried on. And they did so in grand fashion, as was Henry’s way. It was the final day of April 1527, and the gentlemen of Henry’s court who had travelled to France some weeks before along with my father - the Duke of Suffolk, the Duke of Norfolk, Sir William Fitzwilliam and Chancellor More - had proved successful in negotiating the Treaty of Amiens which would lead to an Anglo-French alliance, and furthermore clear the way for the marriage of the Princess Mary with Henri, Duc d’Orléans, François’ son.
The preparations currently in train for the celebration to mark the event were unlike anything I had ever seen, save, perhaps, those for the Field of Cloth of Gold some years ago.
The grounds of Greenwich were teeming with craftsmen and labourers rushing to finish the construction of a new banqueting house. I had peeked within the structure, and was informed by Sir Henry Guildford, who managed the project, that it was designed as a basic building but ingeniously constructed with the flexibility to accommodate stages, props for masques, a special location for musicians and minstrels, various types of wall and ceiling hangings, and everything needed as an advanced centre for dining and entertainment. Across the tiltyard, a proper disguising house was being fabricated, which would feature mummeries and masques. In the disguising house, a spectacular ceiling had been painted by Master Hans Holbein, repres
enting the universe and its astrological bodies. It was surely a work which would mark Master Holbein as a painter of unsurpassable skill since it was most splendidly accomplished with gorgeous blues and yellows, stars and constellations of silver and gold leaf.
Everyone at court was readying for the celebration to commemorate the signing of the Treaty, which would take place on Sunday. For this event, especially one in which my father had played a key role, my mother had come to court. With her, she had brought a glorious gown as a gift for me. It was a most unusual colour - a fascinating peacock blue silk - and I was so grateful; for the gown, but much more so for her companionship.
On the morning of Sunday 5 May, the French envoy arrived to hear Mass said by the Bishop of London. Afterwards, the King and some of his ministers, as well as the French Bishop of Tarbes, Monsieur Grammont, and the Viscount of Turenne, retired to the chamber just outside the Chapel Royal. Here, King Henry signed the Treaty of Eternal Peace between England and France. The bishop and the viscount, as François’ proxies, were duly warned that unless François himself signed the treaty within a reasonable period, England would not be obliged to observe it.
With the serious business accomplished, everyone then hastened to prepare for the grand soirée to be held that evening in the new banqueting house.
There were audible exclamations of amazement as the company entered the building. Guests passed through an enormous, carved and ornately gilded triumphal arch. Once inside, above the arch reaching to the ceiling was painted a huge and realistic image of the English victory over the French at Thérouanne. I wondered which advisor had persuaded Henry this was a good idea, especially when I saw the French ministers shift their glances in discomfited embarrassment when it was pointed out to them. Once inside, the building revealed itself as an architectural marvel. A complex network of beams created the ceiling, and entwined throughout those beams were branches fashioned from iron. Such was their intricacy that it gave visitors the sense of being in a forest; a mystical forest lit by hundreds of twinkling lights. Metal cups forged to the branches held candles, each aglow. The branches trailed carved vines from which roses and leaves, created in vivid detail, hung. As if this display were not impressive enough, high above the beams and branches billowed a canopy of red buckram imprinted with marvellous patterns of gold, reflecting the light of the candles. When one finally tore one’s eyes from staring heavenward, another astonishing sight awaited. Aglow throughout the room were silver candle staffs fashioned as fanciful beasts, lions, dragons, and greyhounds. Draping the walls were the most amazing tapestries, lustrous in colourful silk weave and shimmering with liberal use of silver and gold thread. Against one wall stood an immense buffet, the largest I had ever seen, groaning with gold and silver plate, laden with what appeared to be all manner of choice dishes, staged and ready to serve to the guests.
Amid the preliminary turmoil of guests seeking to find their places at tables, the French ambassadors were seated on the dais, along with the King, Queen Katherine, and Princess Mary, who looked quite grown up in a silver gown. The musicians began playing, and the jolly sound of lutes, shawms, sackbuts and tambours filled the air and invited the guests to dance even while the food was being served. The wine flowed freely - the finest vintages imported from the Burgundy region of France to honour the French dignitaries. The Princess danced gaily with her father, whom, it was obvious, she adored. One could see he was proud of her that night and delighted in showing off her talents in dance and language to the ambassadors. When, finally, the sweets were served, along with small silver goblets of hippocras, the King made his way through the crowded room, and I saw him whisper in the ear of select individuals. He approached me and, hidden by the masses of people, slipped his arm about my waist, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Mistress Anne, meet us for dancing in the Queen’s Apartments once we adjourn.”
His lips brushed my ear as he spoke. I shivered with emotion and longing.
When the banquet had concluded and the sated guests dispersed, those singled out by His Grace headed to the Queen’s Presence Chamber. Minstrels awaited, we assembled, the music began, and I was approached by Monsieur de Turenne. He inquired, “Mademoiselle, vous parlez français, n’est-ce pas?”
I replied with a curtsey and a sweet smile, “Oui, monsieur, j’ai vécu en France!” As we danced, I told him that I had been a member of the court of François, in the service of Queen Claude, and I had loved her very much. He seemed pleased, and we danced together several times that evening.
I knew Henry had kept close watch while I danced and conversed with the French ambassadors. He appeared satisfied to note the attention I received from them. Then, when the musicians had been successful getting every guest to the floor, the King and I partnered for several dances in a row. We delighted in being closely entwined while dancing the Volt, and the implication as we held each other was clear to us and us alone.
Or so we thought.
The following day was clamorous with a jousting tournament attended and loudly cheered by many enthusiastic spectators. In the evening, the new disguising house was introduced in all its glory, with a masque featuring roles for both Princess Mary and the King. The entire company then enjoyed music by the Royal Choir, and while they sang, sounding like a host of angels, the guests craned their necks to peer skyward and were entranced by the wondrous and sparkling images of heaven and earth on the ceiling; designed, decorated and painted by Master Holbein. Considering the new and lavish settings, the fascinating entertainment and the rarest and most tempting food and wines, it was no wonder that people spoke of it being an event not to be rivalled.
But such carefree revelry was not to last.
The delightful party came to an abrupt, horrible end when we were informed by messengers that an Imperial army - some twenty thousand German and Spanish troops led by the bold and brazen Charles, Duke of Bourbon, had invaded Rome. The Pope had been frantically transported to the safety of the Castel Sant’Angelo along with as many panicked Roman families as could gain access. According to the messengers’ accounts, the situation became dire when the Duke was shot and killed by an enemy arquebus while scaling the city walls. Enraged at the loss of Bourbon, the brute foreign soldiery took swift and vicious revenge, running rampant through the city - murdering, raping and plundering, totally out of control.
In the following days, we heard the news that Emperor Charles V had not intended his troops to cause such devastation. But we were told that Rome lay littered with precious art and statuary which had been dragged into the streets, broken and smashed till it became refuse. The Tiber stank with bodies floating and bobbing downstream and the palazzos of the wealthy had been pillaged and destroyed. It cannot have been a proud moment for Katherine, hearing what disaster her nephew’s army had wrought.
Henry and I supped together in his chamber one late April evening. We had not been alone since the joyous night several weeks prior when we had promised ourselves to each other. I was eager to be near to him, to touch him, and to talk with him privately. After we embraced for what seemed like forever, we finally sat at the table and shared wine and cheeses and fruit.
“Henry, I have thought continuously about our promise to each other. You feel the same way now as you did some weeks ago, do you not?” I looked at him with hopeful anticipation, tinged by a certain shyness. I had no idea whether or not his feelings had shifted and he would resume his request that I become his mâitresse.
“Of a certainty, Anne, I feel more strongly than ever that we are meant to be united, and I fully intend that to happen. I have wanted to talk with you because we did not speak of this when we last met. For some time now I have been ill at ease concerning the validity of my marriage to Katherine.”
I leaned forward, genuinely surprised. “But how could that be, Your Grace? You and the Queen have been married for so many years.”
“I have been reading, studying, and reflecting on t
he topic, almost incessantly. I pray, and my prayers seek a sign that I may know the truth. Time and again I ask why Katherine and I have not been granted the blessing of even one living son. It has troubled me for long - for many years - and as the Queen is now too old to bear children, the reason for this failure has at last become clear to me. God is angry with us – with me! I should not have married my brother’s wife. The marriage was never a valid one in the eyes of the Lord God.”
While I was flummoxed by this revelation, I did not doubt his sincerity. His expression was too grave; too full of regret and remorse to be misinterpreted.
He pushed his chair back and strode quickly across the room, picked up a Bible, and brought it back to the table. A ribbon marked a spot, and he opened the book to that page.
The passage he pointed to was in Leviticus 20.21. Written in Latin, it read ‘If a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an impurity: he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.’
I read along with him, and sank back in my chair, thoughtful. He continued. “Anne, there are plans underway to examine this premise in the courts of canon law. I have appointed Dr Richard Wolman, the Archdeacon of Sudbury, to gather evidence in support of my theory. And, along with the facts he has been assembling, tomorrow Cardinal Wolsey will commence a secret trial to assess the validity of my marriage.”
“Henry!” I was astounded. The concept of an invalid marriage between the long-espoused King and Queen of England was almost too provocative to comprehend. If I found it radical, how would others in the Church and the realm view it?
A loathsome thought slithered to the fore. Through tensed lips, I asked, “Does the Cardinal know of us - of our promise?” I awaited Henry’s response with dread. If that serpent was to know about our plans – surmise my happiness - he would subvert them using any conceivable method, I was convinced.
Struck With the Dart of Love Page 9